


Of Lost Souls and a Runaway Demon

by Random_ag



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Gen, Human Sacrifice, Murder, Suicide, also my first work on here? neat, also technically wally n sammy are in a relationship, anyway they are on good terms that's all you need to know, boy oh boy is this angt or some shit, but its not very clear, hot diggity heck its almost done, i meant angst but alright, i'll probably post some more stuff, im gonna finish this quickly i think, this is the first spur-of-the-moment multichapter ive written this fast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-03 00:43:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14557167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_ag/pseuds/Random_ag
Summary: Story of three employees of Joey Drew Studios, and what of them is left.





	1. Fallen Queen

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language, so please tell me if I made any mistakes! I hope you enjoy this.

Niamh O’Flannel was, in several people’s words, a queen’s corpse.

She had the skin the terribly cadaveric hue of the latter, as if she had never seen the sun despite her claims to have grown by the sea, and the stance of the former. She was short and plump, but not soft, very rigid. With her thin waist and full tighs barely concealed by a side-slit dress, rumor had it she had inspireda prototype for Alice Angel.

She was in charge of the staff, and would constantly walk around the studio to check on people - stomp, stomp, stomp, went her feet on the wooden floorboards, floor after floor, room after room, a force of nature unstoppable and angry, with squinted blue eyes and a sour face framed by blond hair.

She didn’t spew curses under her breath; she said them out loud almost every other word, head up high like the respectable fucking lady she was. With fury, annoyance or no emotion at all, everyone had been called terrible things by her so many times, it barely affected them anymore. However, only old Lacie Benton could call her a bitch in her face and survive.

She was scary strong. When heavy lifting was needed, she was the first to get down to it. She got in more fights than anyone else, and most of them she won with but a scratch. She could take on anyone, no matter what. Famous became the time she rained punches on Susie Campbell to stop her from attacking the new voice actress. The former Alice screamed and cried, reclaiming her role: all she got was a bloody nose, a pair of black eyes and a trip to the infirmary.

She kicked down Joey’s door, dragged him all the damn way to level 14 without a single word, stuck him in the ever rising ink and asked him to guess what the problem was. She told Bertrum that if Grant snapped and skinned his sorry ass alive after another demand to raise the budget for the already terribly expensive rides, she would eat pop corn over his corpse.

 

She was devoid of fucks, and did her job brilliantly.

 

But it was so hard now.

 

It was so hard, with such confusion in her mind.

 

-Where are you going?-

Henry winced as he heard her howl, taken by surprise. Alison and Boris just looked at the inky figure sadly, and kept going.

-Come help me. We need to get Eska down.-

-We don’t have time…-

-Don’t have time. You never have time. He’s been up there for days. You don’t have time. We need to get him down. He needs to be buried. Buried. Not stay up there. We need to get him down. Get me Kim. He will help me. Get him. We need to get him down. You don’t have time. You never have time.-

She rambled and rambled, repeating the few sentences she was sure she could still form over and over.

Finally she fell quiet and simply stood, alone.

Clutching her own skeletal body, silently, for the first time since she had set foot in that hellhole, she cried.

 

She didn’t want to work there anymore.


	2. Tired Dancer

Kim Grosso was considered objectively beautiful.

He had a tall, slim body, with skin so smooth and dark he looked shaped right out of a block of Tiger’s Eye. His irises of gold glimmered in such a lovely way with every gentle smile he gave. In the dim lights of Joey Drew Studios, his hair showed intriguing bright red reflexes.

He worked down at Heavenly Toys, shaping, stitching and stuffing plushies for Shawn to paint. Sometimes, however, he would be called up to the upper levels to dance: his movements were carefully copied by the animators. Every frame that was, had or would have been drawn with the help of a rotoscope was stolen from his figure.

He was outstandingly stretchy: he could bend backwards and lay down on his elbows, his feet less than three inches above the ground, driving insane poor Thomas Connor. That boy has no backbone!, the mechanic used to say incredulous, Just flesh! All he ever responded was a whole-hearted laugh as he massaged the aching bottom of his back.

He had problems with it, as well as with his chest and stomach. From time to time he would be forced down to the infirmary, with terrible disappointment of mr. Drew, in pain and mortified for leaving the other toy maker alone. He apologized profusely for it, even though he had no power over his recurring woes.

He could bring even the most stubborn person to reason simply with a firm voice. Polite but irremovable, he never bowed his head down to no one. His only weak spot was Niamh. He just couldn’t help but smile dreamily as he saw the bitter woman stomp her way all over the place.

 

He adored her.

 

Oh, how he wanted to see her again.

 

Even for just a second.

 

Not a day passed without calling for her.

Without wishing to see her be alright, hold her hand and find an exit on her side.

But she wasn’t the same. She only repeated maniacally, with a broken voice - so different from the sharp one he remembered - that they needed to get Eska down. They had to bury him, in a real coffin, under real dirt, and give him a real tombstone. They had to take him off that rope, and she needed his help.

He couldn’t help her anymore; fate hadn’t been kind to him more than to any of them had been turned the employees.

He could just look as she cried descending into despair, too tired to talk, walk, sleep. Too tired to live.

 

He didn’t want to work there anymore.


	3. Odd

Eska was eerie at best.

He never showed his face, hiding it behind a skull-shaped mask. One could only see his mismatched eyes, blue and amber, spying from their dark sockets. His langly body was the color of cinnamon, covered in moles and freckles, and his wavy brown hair had never been combed.

He surely wasn’t named Eska, but his real name was nowhere near being found out. He never walked through doors; one just had to call his name and he would simply appear behind them. In some occasions, he had been found or heard scooting fast in the vents to get to one place to another, like a giant barefoot mole with a loose shirt and some way too big overalls.

He was the studios’ factotum. He could do almost all, from fixing machinery to playing instruments, to setting up projectors and film reels, to drawing poses and backgrounds. The only thing he could not do was animate, but that was just because he didn’t know the technique.

He didn’t talk much, but when he did, others wished he had kept quiet. He talked about how nice it would have been to have been made of wood, so he could take off his head and throw it like a ball, and laughed at the idea of juggling his organs like a clown. Joey once said, enthusiastic, that he sounded just like Bendy. He didn’t speak for a month, and stared at the man from afar, with fear.

He put himself between Norman and projectors, and refused to operate them when the man went away. He had allucinations that left him curled in a ball or standing silent for hours. He looked at the Ink Machine terrified, broke cutouts claiming they spied, feared the toons. He sang and said strange things.

 

He was starting, slowly, to go crazy.

 

It was Wally who noticed.

 

A rope stuffed in one of his huge pockets.

 

-Why ‘re ya bringin’ that around?-

-To escape it.-

-Escape what?-

He didn’t answer. He stared nowhere, with vacant eyes. His head was tilted in an unnatural position and his arms rested almost lifelessly along his sides. His voice was but a distant breath.

 

-I don’t want to work here anymore.-


	4. Calm before the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just a bunch of things that happened more or less every day and everything is a lot more lighthearted than the first three chapters. But don't worry, angst will be right back. If it really doesn't fit, tell me and I'll make it into a new work entirely.

Wally almost got startled, seeing him standing there like that. He wasn’t quite used to Eska being still as a rock; the boy was always either moving, or not in the room at all.

-Hey, buddy!- he called, patting gently Eska’s shoulder, -You alright there?-

He didn’t get a response. Not that he expected him to talk, but… he didn’t know, maybe just move his head to face him, or a hum… Instead, the (younger? Older? Did he ever mention his age?) employee kept staring somewhere in the distance, apparently really focused.

-Uh, welp, guess yer busy doin’… that… so yeah, think I’ll go-

-Good boy.-

-What?-

Eska was looking at him with spirited eyes. He carefully reached for his face, gently patting his cheeks, and repeated: -Good boy.-

-Uh… Thanks?- Wally gave an unsure smile.

This couldn’t get weirder. Unless he was dragged in the vents, that was.

…

-Hi.-

Sammy jumped, only barely saving the music sheet he was writing from getting ruined by his jerky movement.

He turned around, ready to give a piece of his mind to whoever almost gave him a heart attack; but it was just Eska, staring at him. Without taking his eyes off of the music director, the factotum reached inside of the air vent and took out Wally.

-Good boy.- he insisted, pressing his palms against the janitor’s face.

That wasn’t really a lie, but Sammy still gave the other man a questioning look. It didn’t help that neither of them had any idea what could have possibly being going on.

Sammy decided to give in, and nodded: -Yes, yes, Wally’s a good boy.-

-Keep him away from skulls.- Eska ordered. -Keep him away from scary things.-

-Okay. I will.-

-Never come near masks or sheep. Never.-

-Okay.-

-Never. No masks, no sheep. Keep him away from scary things.-

His head moved to the wall, ipnotized, and began singing: -Sing a happy song, whistle a merry tune, wait for his arrival, he’s coming very soon.-

-Shouldn’t you be in the infirmary?- Sammy tried, after a second of silence.

-Oh, yeah!- Wally added, -They, uh, they told me they needed your help! For, uh… for… t-testing… the stuff. That’s in the infirmary. To check you. Yes.-

Eska waited: -Hm.- he simply went. Without an explanation, he crawled back in the vent and in a second he was gone.

Sammy and Wally looked at each other in confusion.

-We don’t even have sheep.- the janitor muttered.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

-Niamh, I’m begging you, let me kill him.- Grant was ready to kneel before her, hands joined in prayer.

-Don’t get me wrong, I would destroy that boisterous dipshit if murder was legalized.- the blonde replied, handing him a shot of liquor, -But we need him to build these fucking rides and no one else seems to know how to do that.-

Lacie stepped in a bit too late to see the poor accountant down the alcohol in one go, but she did give Niamh an idea: -Actually you know what, Lacie here can do build them. Problem solved.-

-What’re you talkin’ ‘bout?- the older woman asked, suspicious.

-Stabbing Bert-the-asshole-rum with a ballpoint pen.-

Grant snorted and gave an uncohordinate chuckle. Lacie looked at the bottle sitting on his desk and glared at Niamh.

-It’s his medicine.- she explained without changing expression, -Special cure for chronic cases of “Joey fucking Drew keeps throwing away money he barely has and if I don’t chug something I’ll break his goddamn neck”.-

This time, the accountant laughed properly: -It tastes like shit, but it does wonders!-

-Bigger than Piedmont’s, too. They don’t cost as much.-

-Fuck yeah!-

The female mechanic smirked: -If it keeps you from crying about numbers, then they truly are.-

Grant began wheezing, and the two women seemed to get the same idea. After a couple of whispers, Niamh snapped her fingers to recall the accountant’s attention.

-Hey, Grant. Get sober for a moment and guess who Lacie is.-

The big, broad lady lowered her voice ridiculously: -Ah’ fuckin’ love ya’, Grant.-

She wasn’t even finished, and already the man had fallen to the floor, punching it as a fit of mad laughter caught him: -IT’S THOMAS! IT’S FFFFFFUCKING THOMAS!- he yelled almost choking himself.

-Gotta hand it to you, that was realistic as shit.- the staff manager admitted, patting Lacie’s back.

-Thanks, bitch.-

-Anytime.-

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Shawn leaned on his chair, faking a stretch: -Sooo, how’s it goin’ with yer wild Irish rose?-

-Get back to work, please.-

-Aw hell nah, I wanna help ye. How am I goin’ to get my sister to marry ya if ye never make a move?-

-She’s not your sister, Shawn. Please keep painting.-

-All good Irish folks are me siblings!- he poked his side with his elbow, causing him to giggle, -Dontcha wanna be my sibling too? My brother-in-law? Think o’ that! I’d be a great uncle!-

Kim sighed. Apparently, that Boris plushie wasn’t going to get sewn today.

-You know I can’t have kids.- he replied, -And besides, I’m not making advances while she’s busy. It’s rude.-

Shawn groaned. She was _never_ not busy. At this rate, his friend wasn’t even going to come as far as touching the girl. Immediate intervention was needed, but who else could have been so bold and knowledgeable of the secret art of whooing lasses?

The answer materialized on the stairs, as if hearing his thoughts.

-Oh, Ki~im !- Johnny called with his melodic voice.

Shawn was quicker than his coworker; laying on him dramatically to keep him from answering, he responded with a melancholic tone: -Johnny! Thank goodness, yer here!-

-Hm? What’s the matter?-

-Our friend, our poor, miserable fella right here… Cannot confess his lof to the lass o’ his dreams.- Flynn continued, smearing himself all over Kim.

-Is she who I think she is?-

-Absolutely.-

-My, my, poor Kim!- Johnny sighed dreamily, chin in his hand, -You’ve cast your eyes upon quite the elusive prey!-

-Please don’t.- Kim pleaded.

Not hearing him, the organist went on: -Sadly, I have not yet charmed a maiden as beautiful… and bitter- he added, causing Shawn to chuckle, -as your chosen one. But fear not! For your pal Johnny can and will teach you all the ways you can make her heart beat faster than your dancing feet!-

-You really don’t need to do this.-

-But we will!-

-No you won’t.-

-C’mon, we just want to help you! Like we did with yer little body problem!- the toy maker replied.

-You suggested shoving a cucumber down my pants.-

-I did, and it was an idea of seriously bad taste. But! This time, there won’t be any!-

Kim rolled his eyes. Somehow, he really doubted that.

He waited, hoping the two love advice ramblers would get tired of his lack of participation in their long conversation. He sat through nearly half an hour squashed between them, as patient as a saint, as they listed a hundred and fiftytwo ways (most of which were terrible, courtesy of Shawn) to win the cold, possibly dead heart of that certain girl.

Finally, he raised his head from the Edgar plush he had stuffed and looked at Johnny with a sweet smile: -For what did you need me, again?-

The chatterbox stopped, confused. A dawning realization caused his eyes to widen and hands go to his mouth in horror.

-The rotoscope…! Goodness gracious, I forgot! Sammy’s gonna kill me!-

He grabbed Kim’s hand and headed for the stairs in a hurry.

-It ain’t over!- Shawn howled after them, -We’ll set ya up, I swear!-

The other toy maker laughed, readjusting the home-made binder that was tearing through his skin under his sweater, and followed the mortified organist on to the upper levels.


	5. Back and Forth, Back and Forth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He failed. He failed.  
> You shouldn't have followed me.  
> Keep him away from skulls and nooses. Keep him away from scary things.  
> He failed. I'm sorry.  
> I'm sorry.  
> The sheep have gone to slaughter.  
> Goodbye, and don't dream me.

-WHERE IN THE LIVING _FUCK_ IS ESKA?-

Niamh’s voice was stronger than thunder. She wandered absolutely furious, stomping her way through the various floors of Joey Drew Studios possibly harder than usual, like a volture whose breakfast had been snatched away.

-You’re going to wear your shoes, feet and voice down faster than Franks loses his keys if you keep that going.- Sammy had the guts to comment, annoyed and startled by such a loud voice.

He swallowed in fear as the woman’s blue glare hit him straight in the face, outraged. The cold color of her enraged eyes made her cadaveric visage all the more dreadful.

- _BITCH_.- she hissed, -I have been looking for him for **A DAMN HOUR**. And if there’s one single truth in this side of hell, is that Eska is the kind of small demon you immediately summon by simply calling his name.-

Behind the primordial rage filling her voice, the music director sensed very well her ever-growing worry. As terribly unpolite and violent as she could be, when Niamh took a liking for someone she showcased a fierce, protective love that made her care for them more than for anything else, to the point that she willing to die and kill. The absence of the peculiar factotum was therefore concerning her in a terrifying way.

That didn’t stop her from remembering yet another reason to be mad: -Speaking of Wally, where in the flying fish shit has he gone to? I can’t find him anywhere. As if missing one outstandingly oversized child wasn’t enough.-

-Franks is twenty two, Ms. O’Flannel.-

-Whoever the dickhead who allowed you to call me like that is will get slapped directly into the sun. Also, stop whatever the hell you’re doing and go find him.-

Sammy’s eyes widened, almost offended: -What? Why me? I have a song to conduct, you know?-. He gestured to show her the band, finally ready to play, and the music sheet right on the lectern in front of him

-And I have circa one hundred employees to look after and _ONE FUCKING DEVIL TO LOCATE!_ \- she yelled, hard enough for the orchestra’s chatter to immediatly fall in a fearful silence. She took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose in desperation as she tried to calm down.

-Listen, just… find the goddamn janitor. It won’t take long. You know where he goes, don’t you, with all the time you’ve started spending together. Find him quickly. I’ll have Norman…- her voice trailed off, realizing her mistake as she swallowed saliva, -Jack, I’ll get Jack to direct this shit. Just go. Please.-

The music director stared at her for a little while, unsure. With a sigh and a nod, he finally went off.

Niamh must have already looked for him in the closets, he considered, as well as all sorts of little places the young man could have escaped to so he could lay down for a nap. The only place she wouldn’t even have thought of, however… was the Machine Alley.

It was terribly dark and moving around in it was a serious attempt at one’s safety. The perfect place to hide.

Getting there from Heavenly Toys should have been relatively easy. The only obstacle would have been the heavy… open… door.

Uh.

That was not a good sign.

The Machine Alley was always closed.

Grabbing one of the spare lights Wally had hidden around (just in case one got lost), the music director made his way down the corridor.

Luckily, he didn’t have to search for long. Soon enough the stream of light hit the janitor’s skinny figure, looking over his head and with his jaw dropped.

-Wally!- he called. And things only got worse.

The boy turned to him, white as a ghost. He stumbled towards him as if drunk, utter terror in his eyes, and before the Sammy could say anything he pushed his head down so that all he could see would have been the floor.

-Don’t look up…- his voice seemed begging, on the verge of tears, -Don’t look up…-

Sammy jerked his head free from Wally’s grasp. The poor guy collapsed onto him, arms wrapped around his neck and shaking like a leaf as the worried musician asked: -What happened? Wally, what’s wrong?-

Ignoring his pleas, he pointed the light upwards.

And saw.

A pair of bare feet floated some metres over the place Wally’s head had been standing, rocking gently in unison, back and forth, back and forth.

Connected to a rope, a skull was tilted to the side and stared down at the two men with its glassy, mismatched eyes.

-He’s still moving, isn’t he?- Wally muttered.

No one answered.

 

 

 

-Niamh!-

When she turned, the first thing she saw was a trembling Wally, paler than he’d ever been, wrapped around Sammy like a fearful child.

-We… We found Eska.-

Her throat tied itself in a knot.

-Where is he?- it wasn’t the question she wanted to ask.

But Sammy understood.

-He hung himself.-.

All sound died.

For two complete minutes Niamh lost all the color she could have still had. Under her almost transparent skin, her muscles could be seen itching.

-Where. Is. He.-

-… Machine Alley.-

-Take Wally to the infirmary. Now.-

And without another word she bolted in the direction of Heavenly Toys.

She came back with the rage of a thousand winters. Her hair swirling almost unnaturally as she ran, she threw down Joey’s office door. For half an hour she screamed loud enough to be heard all over the floor, throwing things, hitting walls, cursing the man she claimed had caused her friend’s death, mad with pain. No one dared coming near.

 

She didn’t come out of there that day.

And she was nowhere to be seen the next morning, or afternoon, or evening.

 

 

 

Kim knocked politely before pulling the dorknob and entering.

-Oh, it’s you. What is it, Kim?-

-Sorry for disturbing. I was just… concerned, as to why ms. O’Flannel hasn’t come to work, and hoped you could help me figure it out, sir.-

-Ah, yes, Niamh… She left. Quit two days ago! Poor lass had a breakdown right in front of me, and said she couldn’t handle this no more. But don’t worry, she’s a talented girl. Surely, she’s already making a living.-

Kim’s eyes trailed around the office, trying to find something he couldn’t explain. He knew there was one little thing he was looking for, but couldn’t make up what it could have been.

Finally, he found it. Left all alone in a corner, half covered by a garbage can, a single woman’s shoe laid abbandoned on the ground.

-I see.- he spoke. His tone was cold enough to freeze a lesser man.

His golden eyes locked with his intelocutor’s, solid metal piercing his way in the other man’s mind. He wouldn’t have allowed to be fed any kind of lie.

-I believe you have not heard me very well, mr. Drew. Don’t worry. I have no problem repeating myself. I only ask this time around you to tell me the truth.

 _Why isn’t Niamh O’Flannel at work?_ -

 

When a really annoyed animator came down to Shawn to ask him where Kim was, the Irish man had been waiting for him for two weeks.

 

 

* * *

 

 

-Hey! What the… Get down from there! What’re ya doin’?-

_-He failed. He failed._

~~You shouldn’t have followed me.~~

Keep him away from skulls and nooses. Keep him away from scary things.

**He failed. I’m sorry.**

~~ _**I’m sorry.** _ ~~

The sheep have gone to slaughter.

 **Goodbye** , _and_ ~~don’t~~ dream me.-

 

With a crack the nightmare ended, and Wally woke up screaming.


	6. Monologue for Two

_Niamh._

**Kim.**

_You were so beautiful._

**We need to get him down.**

_I loved you so very much._

**We need to get him off.**

_I still do._

**He’s been up there for days.**

_You’ve been my driving force._

**He shouldn’t be there.**

_Please, listen to me._

**We need to bury him.**

_I just want us to get out._

**Come on.**

_Please._

**Come help me.**

_Come with me._

**We need to bury him.**

_We’ll find an exit._

**He’s up there.**

_Maybe through the vents._

**He used to go through the vents.**

_Up there we could move freely._

**Maybe that’s how he got up there.**

_If you could just..._

**We need to get him down.**

_Hear me._

**... I lost it.**

_I’m tired._

**I’m so sorry.**

_I can’t walk._

**I can’t feel it.**

_I wish you listened._

**You gave it to me.**

_I’m so tired._

**That choker necklace.**

_Let’s stop here._

**I don’t know how I lost it.**

_Let’s sit down._

**I always wore it.**

_Let’s just sleep._

**You bought it for my birthday.**

_Forget everything I said._

**It was very sweet of you.**

_Forget everything._

**I can’t believe I lost it.**

_Just sleep._

**I loved it very much.**

_Think of nothing._

**Maybe we can find it.**

_Become nothing._

**I really want it back.**

_Puddles._

**It’s dear to me.**

_Let’s just die, and become puddles._

**It was your gift, and I loved it so.**

_I’m too tired._

**I can’t do this.**

_Niamh._

**Kim.**

 

 

> **_I_ ** **_don’t want to work here anymore._ **


	7. Imposter's Finale

They were gone. That was it.

When someone dared asking, Joey smiled: he went after his lovebird, he said, They got an opportunity and took it on the spot.

And this time, it was the truth.

Niamh had tried to strangle him. She had almost made it. But as weak as the man was, he always carried something to protect himself, just in case. He hit her head with his cane, hard enough to make her fall, but not to stop her from yelling or attacking him. It took what seemed hundreds of hits, but finally, she quit moving. He cleaned the blood falling from her disfigured head to the ground and, with the help of his alcolytes, carried her away, into the ink. Sacrificed right before her heart definitely stopped. That had been a close call.

Kim didn’t quite move after hearing that, but his glare told him all sorts of terrible things. Locking him on that chair, frozen, he had felt utter fear. The boy spoke calmly, but the words sounded utterly distorted. Suddenly, he noticed he wasn’t sitting anymore; the young man had pinned him to the ground, punching harder than he was able to, tears in his eyes. Only the repentine intervent of a follower, who choked him with a scarf until he lost his senses, was the reason he was alive. Sacrificed like his crush, but awake, to feel the pain.

Yet.

Joey was not satisfied.

Because down to the third level, hidden in the darkness, a perfect Bendy had been lost.

And Eska  _knew_  that.

His prophetic allucinations had warned him a long time ago. He had picked up the red flags as soon as Joey had set eye on him, and he  _knew_ , he just _knew_ what the man was thinking.

He’d seen how it would have happened. He’d seen the demon chasing him.

He’d seen Sammy’s madness and Wally’s tears, Susie’s despair and Norman’s fate; Grant’s transformation and Shawn’s fear, Thomas’ confusion and Allison’s scared eyes; Jack’s last breath and Johnny’s final scream, Lacie’s open throat and Bertrum’s contorted body.

He’d seen the writings on the walls, the monsters through the halls, the eyes of light of fearing corpses, the darkness ruling in the puddles of ink.

He’d seen his own sacrifice, and he’d seen how to prevent it.

Just like that, he did.

Simple death would not suffice. A procedure was needed.

And now that the perfect candidate was gone, he lost forever his only hope, and gained nothing but a traumatized janitor, a pair of inconveniences, and a corpse looking down at him.

Joey could still see him.

A barefoot ghost, intangible and mocking, with big overalls and a loose shirt, sitting on his desk right next to him. His never combed hair falling on a smiling face no one else had seen before, free from that bloody mask he liked so much.

Eska stared at him, grinning widely like only a certain devil could: -What a stupid man you are. So stupid, stupid, stupid.-

Joey swung his arm, furious: it passed right through the boy.

He laughed in his face making a sound no one else had ever heard, a perfect sound, the laugh of a little dancing demon.

-If you had just kept drawing, none of this would have happened. None of this. What a stupid man you are, Joseph. Stupid and proud.-

-Shut up!- the animator yelled, throwing a pen at the spectre.

-You’ll die alone with no one to love you.- but he kept going, toothy smile getting bigger and bigger, a smile so perfect, so identical, a funny lil’ imp’s grin, -You’ll die sorrounded by ink and pain, and your hell will be terrible, terrible.-

-You’ll go to hell too! Don’t forget of your sin!-

-I got my wish, I’m made of wood. I can take off my head and roll it like a ball.- Eska’s eyes stared at him close.

-You’ll feel all the worst things, all the worst things.

And when you’ll die, they will all be free, all of them, except for you. They’ll go to heaven, up there, far away from you, and I’ll laugh at your pain, all of your pain.

You’ll get treated well, treated well! Just like you’ve treated everyone else. I’ve seen what will happen, and you’ll get treated well.- He concluded, hissing malicious.

And he lgigge ~~d~~  again, with that perfect little giggle, and smirked, with that perfect wide smirk, and Joey stood up (his leg screamed, but he couldn’t hear it under that sound, that perfect sound of the perfect vessel that had escaped him) and all that was on the table flew againts the boy with a swift movement and a furious noise that could have been a scream.

The ghost didn’t move an inch, untouched by everything, and the old man wrapped his fingers around his throat, squeezing the source of that perfect, devilishly yet naively perfect chuckle to make it _stop-_

**-You’re going insane, Joseph. Trying to kill the dead, when he isn’t even real.-**

Joey’s hands clasped together, grasping the air.

Eska’s words sounded like the end of a dream.

And as he tried to slow down his breath, he noticed he had always been alone.

He had imagined all of that.

He collapsed on the floor, his leg feeling on the verge of breaking. Through clenched teeth he swore and forced himself onto his weel chair.

Again he heard that perfect sound echo through his office, mocking.

With all of his strength he cursed Eska, the little unnamed bastard.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

He hadn’t expected it to happen like this.

It was the last sacrifice, the last thing that could have pulled him away from death’s greedy grasp.

But whatever was happening, it didn’t feel right.

Joey pulled and stretched in the thick engulfing darkness, trying to understand what the hell was going on.

A laugh echoed far away.

A naive, devilish laugh.

He heard it again, much closer, almost in his hear.

He turned around frantically, trying to talk, to ask “who’s there?”; but his mouth couldn’t move.

He stopped, frightened. And finally it appeared.

A cinnamon face sprinkled with moles and freckles, carrying a big, round grin.

Malicious, but childish.

Perfect.

-You’ll get treated well.- Eska assured. His perfect voice was terrifying.

-You’ll get treated well, treated well.-

Joey felt like he was being pulled upwards. In an attack of panic, he grabbed tightly the other’s wrist, suddenly not wanting to be revived in his new form, suddenly ready to accept the fate polio had chosen for him.

Eska stared at him, his expression never changing, and reached for his own left hand.

_Clack!_

The last image that Joey saw with his own eyes, before the were replaced by those drawn on the cutouts, was a skinny young boy with a terrible mark on his neck, smiling like a little dancing demon as he mockingly waved him goodbye with his wooden doll-like hand held in the right one.


End file.
